1917

May 2, 1918

The scene of David’s twelfth birthday was, in every sense, a spectacle. Despite the inevitable march of time that often refines a child’s sense of humor, David remained steadfastly loyal to his particular brand of crude comedy. In fact, he doubled down on it, transforming his juvenile fondness for fart jokes into an art form—or perhaps a grotesque parody of one. His pièce de résistance was his insistence that the entire world was merely one colossal fart waiting to be set free. It was a baffling proclamation, one whose logic defied even the wildest imagination, but his sheer commitment to the absurdity rendered it oddly entertaining.

I laughed along, of course, joining the chorus of his friends whose intellectual depth hovered somewhere between perplexing and pitiable. My use of the word “retarded” here is not intended as an insult; rather, it is a blunt description of their collective mental state. They seemed incapable of grasping even the simplest nuances of conversation, but they adored David’s antics with a sincerity that was, in its way, endearing. Watching their over-the-top reactions to his ridiculous quips made the chaos of the party almost bearable.

“What’d you bring for me?” David asked, his voice brimming with an almost theatrical expectation, as if he were the king of some absurd court. His grin stretched wide, and his eyes sparkled with mischief and greed—the kind that only a twelve-year-old could muster without irony. He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped together as if to punctuate his demand with a veneer of politeness that was entirely insincere.

It was David’s birthday, after all, and he had made it clear that no one would walk through his front door without bearing tribute. His tone, however, carried the implicit understanding that he wasn’t above mocking the gift if it didn’t meet his high standards—standards that likely revolved around how loud, gross, or ridiculous the item could be.

“I got you a baseball cap, you weirdo,” I sighed, handing him the gift with little ceremony, bracing for whatever half-witted remark he’d unleash next. You’d think the approach of puberty might smooth out the rough edges of a personality like David’s—maybe add a touch of maturity or self-awareness. Instead, it seemed to amplify every insufferable trait he possessed, as though the universe had decided he needed to become even more of a walking embodiment of chaos.

He grabbed the cap, holding it up like some ancient relic, inspecting it with exaggerated reverence. I could already see the gears turning in his head, ready to churn out another ridiculous comment. I rolled my eyes, regretting the effort I’d put into finding something halfway decent for him.

“David, why do you put Jeremiah through your stupid jokes?” Uncle Jack asked, his tone unusually stern. His question cut through the birthday chaos, silencing the room for a moment.

“Because he loves them!” David exclaimed, gesturing at me like I was some kind of court jester. He wore a triumphant smirk, making me out to be the patron saint of low standards or some other nonsense.

I sighed, tired of being his perpetual excuse. “You know, David, at one point I did find them amusing. But you’re twelve now. I want you to at least grow up a little.”

My words hung in the air, a challenge I hoped would resonate. Instead, he fired back without missing a beat.

“What, and be like you?” he mocked, tone dripping with disdain. His grin widened, as though the insult were some kind of brilliant checkmate.

I felt my jaw tighten. “Yeah, maybe. Being a little less obnoxious wouldn’t kill you,” I shot back, but the room had already begun to buzz with awkward laughter from his dim-witted entourage. David, as usual, was the king of his ridiculous little world, and he wasn’t stepping off the throne anytime soon.

“David, grow the hell up,” my father practically demanded, voice cutting through the room like a knife. He didn’t bother masking his irritation, the annoyance in his tone a stark reminder that even he had limits when it came to David’s antics.

David froze for a moment, his grin faltering as the words landed. It wasn’t often that my dad intervened, but when he did, it was like a thunderclap. Still, David, being David, couldn’t let it go without some kind of rebuttal.

“Oh, come on, Uncle James!” he said, attempting to defuse the tension with a crooked smile. “I’m just trying to keep things fun. You don’t want me to turn into a boring adult, do you?”

My dad crossed his arms, unimpressed. “There’s a difference between having fun and acting like a brat. You’re twelve now. It’s about time you started figuring that out.”

The room fell uncomfortably silent, begging for someone to c***k a joke or change the subject. But for once, David didn’t have a comeback ready, and I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Where’s your girlfriend, Peggy?” David mocked, his tone sharp and infuriating.

“You little—!” I started, voice rising, but stopped short before finishing the sentence. The F-bomb would have exploded otherwise.

“He doesn’t have a relationship with Peggy,” my mother interjected sharply, cutting the tension like a referee stepping into a fight.

“Well, he acts like he’ll marry her someday!” David shouted, smug grin widening. His outburst caused his friends to recoil slightly, their tiny bird brains unable to process the audacity of his words.

“Because I will, dumbass!” I fired back, voice breaking with frustration.

As if on cue, Peggy appeared, walking up with effortless grace. My heart skipped a beat, nerves tangling my words.

“Hiya, boys!” she said brightly, oblivious to the verbal battlefield.

David shot me a knowing look, smirk saying it all: I know exactly what you’re thinking. My palms were clammy again.

“H-hiya, Peggy!” I choked out, words barely escaping my throat.

“How are you doing, David?” Peggy asked, her smile radiant and disarming.

David couldn’t resist. “Oh, you know, Peggy, just living the dream. Well, if the dream involves being surrounded by idiots, that is!” He gestured broadly toward me and his crew, earning nervous chuckles.

Peggy laughed politely. “Sounds like you’re having fun!”

I watched, flustered, as David basked in Peggy’s attention.

“What did you get for me, Peggy?” David blurted out, derailing the conversation.

“I got you a model of a Studebaker Tourer!” she exclaimed, holding out a small, intricately detailed box.

“Holy crap! That’s like my favorite car!” David shouted, pulling her into an enthusiastic hug.

I stood frozen, stiff with nerves and jealousy.

“I know!” she replied, beaming.

David inspected the model, chattering excitedly. I clenched my fists, taking deep breaths to calm my swirling emotions.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have gotten you something that expensive. How much was it, Peg?”

“Twenty dollars and nine cents,” she replied casually.

“Holy crap!” I blurted out, mind reeling at the sum—an enormous amount in 1918.

Peggy laughed lightly. “It’s fine. I saved up for it. David deserves something special.”

I glanced at David, who was still fawning over the model. Envy twisted in my chest.

“I have to go home now; it’s going to be dark soon,” Peggy said, cheerful tone turning practical.

“Let me walk you,” I blurted out before thinking.

David’s grin spread like wildfire. He silently mouthed the “Kissing under-a-tree” song, gestures exaggerated.

I shot him a glare so sharp it could cut glass. Uncle Jack would lose it if I reacted physically.

Peggy smiled politely. “That’s sweet of you, Jeremiah, but it’s really not that far.”

“It’s no trouble,” I stammered, voice wavering.

David snorted, clearly amused, but I tried to ignore him.

As we walked, Peggy leaned in and kissed me softly on the cheek. My heart nearly stopped.

“I really like you, Jeremy,” she said, cheeks blooming pink.

I froze. “Come again?”

“I really do,” she replied, unwavering. “I swear on it.”

“Peggy?” My voice trembled.

“Yes?”

“I... I love you,” I admitted, words tumbling out.

Her face lit up. “Oh, I love you too!”

“Wait… really really?”

“Yes, really really. I want to be married to you.”

“I do too,” I replied, scooping her onto my back for a piggyback ride.

“Oh, Jeremy! Please don’t drop me!” she exclaimed.

“I could never, honey,” I grinned.

She giggled. “Are we going to talk as if we’re married now?”

“Sure, why not?”

Her smile softened. “How will you explain this to your parents?”

“I’ll tell them I found my future wife,” I said, shaking like an autumn leaf.

After leaving Peggy at her doorstep, I returned home, floating on the memory of the moment—until reality crashed down.

My mother stood in the doorway, red-faced, tear-streaked.

“What now?” I muttered.

“Your father had a stroke,” she choked, tears falling. “He had to go to the hospital.”

Anxiety slammed into me, relentless.

“What?” I whispered. “What happened to Dad?”

“He collapsed while working in the mines. The doctor said it was a stroke, Jeremy. A stroke!”

The euphoria of the evening evaporated, replaced by hollow dread.

“I’m going to visit him, and you can’t stop me,” I declared, voice sharp with anger.

“I’m coming with you,” my mother said firmly, clutching her purse full of aspirin and pain relievers, though we both knew nothing could undo the damage.

We rode in silence. The hospital loomed over us like a harbinger of doom. The smell of disinfectant hit me sharply. My heart pounded as fluorescent lights cast everything in harsh, unforgiving glow. Each step felt heavier than the last as we braced for whatever awaited behind those doors.